Rio Film Nico Novels & Stories

Linux is still holding the fork and giving Jirou spaghetti. "Good morning, bitch," Nico greeted, causing Jirou to look at her badly. Nico is eating spaghetti and later Luxian handed Nico a tissue. "Don't call my boss like that," Jirou said irritated but still cold to Nico. "Why wouldn't I call my bestfriend a bitch? Maybe because you don't have friends, that's why you don't know about these kinds of fucking words," Nico said back. "By the way, bitch. I need the documents for that fucking last will. All of it so it can be finalized."

~~Romeo Amoretti~~ “That video… is crazy. Oh my fucking god, Niccolo, you’re a pervert!” Nero shouted, clutching the phone like a lifeline. His face was practically pressed against it. I don’t know how he can see anything from that close up. It’s actually insane.

He pulled me close and whispered, “You looked like you were having too much fun without me.” I pulled away with a fake smile and saw him smirking. Why on earth would he say that? Nico extended a hand. “Hey, Mr. Alcaraz.” Rios took it without looking away from me. “Nice to see you again, Nico. Always great watching you and my wife… perform.” The way he said perform sent a ripple down my spine. He then took my hand. “Shall we go in?” I didn’t answer. I just nodded. I glanced back at Nico, who also gave me a nod. We were instructed to go inside together, but Rios had already led me inside.

"Or this alliance becomes very simple. The Morettis versus the Santoros. Winner takes all." Sofia spoke up. "Everyone calm down. Alessandro, do you actually have this recording?" "Yes." He pressed play. Nico's voice filled the room, drunk and boastful: "You should have seen them burn, little brother. The Moretti daughters screaming for their father. The mother trying to save them. It was beautiful. Power in its purest form." The recording continued for another minute. Nico describing details, laughing about the fire, admitting everything. When it ended, the room erupted.

well you'll die like the lots of them will soon. Niko was Russian by birth and nationality, but he grew up with the Italians and had turned down severally offers to turn to the side of the Russian mafia. Niko finally gave in to the darkness that had been slowly enveloping his sight. He knew it would be his last sight. He thought of Serena. The only woman he had ever loved but who could never love him back because not only did she see him as a brother but also, she wasn't into men. He prayed his last prayer, not for him, but for her;

“Did you see her?” “Who?” “Lila Falcone.” “Oh yeah, the little princess who has been glued to Nico side the entire night, she looks like such a stiff.” I remained quiet while I listened to the women. “She’s so…plain. I can’t believe that this entire war between the Moretti brothers is because of her. It’s not like she’s that pretty.” “I know. I’m telling you, I don’t know what it is Nico sees in her. He’s so fucking hot, he could have any woman he wants, like me.” The woman giggled like a tramp, and my blood started to simmer.

I asked cautiously, "So, Lucaro isn't dead, right? He's alive? And he woke up?" With a light snort, Nico explained, "Mr. Ricci found a renowned doctor. That's who helped him recover. After he woke up, he asked about you. I told him everything you've done these years. He's given up on you. He won't interfere with you becoming the next Donna Altieri." Nico spoke lightly, but each word felt like a blade cutting into my heart over and over again. Still, amid the pain, I was grateful that Lucaro wasn't dead.

“Okay, babe. I'll find Lina and talk to you. Anything, call me, okay?” “Okay…” she said, shyly. Nico wanted to say he liked her, or something cute, but he didn't know how. So, he just said goodbye normally and hung up the phone. Eraldo was coming out of one of the doors that led to the basement. “Did you catch anyone?” Nico asked. “Yes. One of those in the car. Raffaele Cardone, as you requested.” “Great. I have to go, now. Keep an eye on your phone.”

Nico is chaos wrapped in devotion. He sings to the babies—badly. He makes faces, exaggerated voices, ridiculous dances that somehow work every time. Marcella adores him, but so does Fiorella, whose serious eyes follow his movements like she’s studying joy for the first time. And when Camilla won’t sleep unless someone hums? Nico hums until his voice cracks. “She wins,” he mutters. “I surrender.” Riccardo is the stillness. He sits for hours, barely moving, a baby against his chest, hand splayed protectively over tiny backs. He doesn’t speak much, but when he does, the girls quiet immediately.

Mom giggled like a teenager, covering her mouth, proudly flashing her newly painted fake nails. My teeth ground together as I shifted my glare to Ricochet. He was still sitting pretty, legs crossed, one arm lazily draped along the backrest of the sofa, looking offensively gorgeous in a simple white polo and brown trousers. Like he didn’t just walk back into my life and flip it upside down.